


Inquisitor Fear

by Miss_Snazzy



Series: In Which Modern Characters Frolic in Thedas [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, And she does not care, Avoidance, Fear, Garbage Inquisitor, Gen, If the interest is there, Modern Girl in Thedas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, To Be Continued, cursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 03:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cleo takes one look at that Breach and thinks—cue music—FUCK THIS SHIT, I'M OUT!</p>
<p>Snapshots into the struggle of a Modern-Girl-Made-Inquisitor who is scared to death and just wants to get the fuck out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inquisitor Fear

1.

The world has a way of making the most mundane of problems strike the deepest wounds. A quick snap of bone lights up pain receptors like no one's business but, as is the case with most physical pain, it flickers, fades, and once it does, it leaves behind a sighing relief. Life continues and survival tastes mighty sweet for a time. No, it's the mundane problems that wiggle under fingernails, make teeth almost itch. Because there's a kind of partnership with that pain, a willingness to endure. Until the chaotic actions of the universe become reactions to stupid choices made in stupid moments.

"You let this happen," the voices say.

"You don't have to, you never have to," they continue.

The knowledge that there are other options, no matter how distant or unrealistic or irresponsible they seem—it burrows, it lingers, it festers. Until _what if what if what if_ drowns out everything else.

 

2.

Cleo watches her twirl the staff in her hands, striking ice and fire in turns. Her eyes have gone glassy, but her smile remains wide, pleased in a way that proves fleeting. She watches her with a level of pride that might've rivaled that Pride Demon. The sound of clicking slips under the crack and crackle of channeled elements, until she can imagine her own hands on that staff.

This marks the beginning of her second playthrough. The ease and confidence of her movements are hindered by her piss-poor selection of spells. Fighting with her makes Cleo feel almost muffled after raining lightning on Corypheus and opening a rift in his fucking face.

Cleo mashes the button to close the rift with vindictive pleasure.

 

3.

Sometimes she can hear the clicking echo in her ears, a flash of red in her peripheral vision. She twitches when she does, losing track of the conversation as her gaze flicks around her.

No one says anything after the first time, but she can see the way their eyes sometimes follow, the way their lips pull down when they stop trying.

 

4.

The worst thing has to be the way people just _talk to her_.

 

5.

"Herald!"

She makes the mistake of making eye contact. Hard to ignore a title when she's spent literal days responding to it. Her pace picks up, but they're running toward her, actually fucking running toward her.

"Lady Cassandra is looking for you!" the soldier gasps.

"Oh, right," she wills an amiable smile on her face. "I'll be right there." She nods her head in a quick jerk and resumes her stride.

"The Chantry is the other way, Serah!"

 

6.

Maybe the worst thing is actually the cold.

She burrows her hands deeper into her armpits to leech whatever warmth they've managed to produce. With each step she takes, the shaking becomes harder to ignore. Her face stings, her limbs ache, and she wonders how long until frostbite poses a real threat. The clothes she awoke in provide about as much warmth as their appearance suggests, that is, not much.

"What I wouldn't give for a pocket warmer," she says, half the words lost to the chatter of her teeth.

She pictures the way the Inquisitor would stagger back from places like this, arm held in front of her face to ward off the chill.

"There's nothing out here," she sneers, listening to the snow crunch underfoot.

She resists the urge to strike her fist into the air when she comes across the logging stand. The sight still gives her a spike of energy as she rushes up the side of the hill. She hisses when her hands meet the snow in an effort to maintain her balance, but keeps moving.

"I've slid down steeper slopes...for fun," she huffs at the hill, forging higher even as she almost topples backward a few times.

The texture of the rock should probably be rough against her hands when she finally reaches it, but she's laughing.

"I fucking made it," she grins up at the Breach and pushes off of the rock to move higher.

Her delight fractures as green energy cracks through her palm with enough force to send her staggering backward. Through the pain, she's careful to keep her steps away from the edge, but then the energy is moving up her arm and it's tearing through her chest—

—she can't—

—she can't breathe through the crack, the shifting of the sky and snow around her.

The top of the hill looms over her when the world stops moving. She's wheezing through the cracks in her chest and her throat scrapes with each swallow—god, she might've been screaming.

She just hopes that druffalo doesn't find her.

She tries to move, to roll over, to _anything_ , but her limbs are heavy and yet tense, like the taut thread of her sewing machine right before it snaps. Her gaze is blurry and everything is washed in that sickly Fade green, but even still, she can make out the furry mass lumbering toward her when she manages to tilt her head back.

Goddamn druffalo.

 

7.

"Paetra."

She had picked the name as a joke. Somehow, it had stopped being funny.

"It's Cleo, actually. Call me Cleo."

 

8.

Solas is hovering over her when she comes to, his hands alight with what she hopes is healing magic.

"What are you doing?" she tries to ask, but her tongue feels thick and she can't really hear over the ringing in her ears.

His lips move, but his voice cracks in and out.

"You're buffering," she giggles, feeling something like hysteria bubble in her chest. The spark of humor fizzes out and her head rolls with a groan. "Can't hear you."

She blinks when he presses his hands against either side of her head and peers up at his face. His expression remains stoically focused as his skin grows colder, magic seeping into her skin.

"Better?"

Her memory of his voice really hadn't done the smoothness of it justice.

"Yes," she croaks. He hasn't moved his hands yet. She clears her throat. "Thank you."

She reaches up to swipe away the hair stuck to her cheeks, but pauses when she catches sight of her hands.

"You're lucky," Solas murmurs. She frowns. Solas nods at her bandaged hands. "Had they remained exposed to the cold much longer, you might have lost a degree of mobility."

She flexes and winces at the ensuing ache.

"Lucky..." So fucking funny she wants to laugh. "Right."

**Author's Note:**

> This has been collecting dust on my laptop since last August.  
> Might continue this if there's interest (mine and/or your own).


End file.
